General William Booth Enters into Heaven and Other Poems [9]
the sky --
And shall he mold like dead leaves in the grave?
Nay he is in us! Let us dare and dare.
God help us to be brave.
Titian
Would that such hills and cities round us sang,
Such vistas of the actual earth and man
As kindled Titian when his life began;
Would that this latter Greek could put his gold,
Wisdom and splendor in our brushes bold
Till Greece and Venice, children of the sun,
Become our every-day, and we aspire
To colors fairer far, and glories higher.
Lincoln
Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,
That which is gendered in the wilderness
From lonely prairies and God's tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire --
Fire that freed the slave.
The Cornfields
The cornfields rise above mankind,
Lifting white torches to the blue,
Each season not ashamed to be
Magnificently decked for you.
What right have you to call them yours,
And in brute lust of riches burn
Without some radiant penance wrought,
Some beautiful, devout return?
Sweet Briars of the Stairways
We are happy all the time
Even when we fight:
Sweet briars of the stairways,
Gay fairies of the grime;
WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT.
"Our feet are in the gutters,
Our eyes are sore with dust,
But still our eyes are bright.
The wide street roars and mutters --
We know it works because it must --
WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT!
"Dirt is everlasting. -- We never, never fear it.
Toil is never ceasing. -- We will play until we near it.
Tears are never ending. -- When once real tears have come;
"When we see our people as they are --
Our fathers -- broken, dumb --
Our mothers -- broken, dumb --
The weariest of women and of men;
Ah -- then our eyes will lose their light --
Then we will never play again --
WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT."
Fantasies and Whims: --
The Fairy Bridal Hymn
[This is the hymn to Eleanor, daughter of Mab and a golden drone,
sung by the Locust choir when the fairy child marries her God,
the yellow rose]
This is a song to the white-armed one
Cold in the breast as the frost-wrapped Spring,
Whose feet are slow on the hills of life,
Whose round mouth rules by whispering.
This is a song to the white-armed one
Whose breast shall burn as a Summer field,
Whose wings shall rise to the doors of gold,
Whose poppy lips to the God shall yield.
This is a song to the white-armed one
When the closing rose shall bind her fast,
And a song of the song their blood shall sing,
When the Rose-God drinks her soul at last.
The Potato's Dance
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"I saw a ball last night
In honor of a lady
Whose wings were pearly-white.
The breath of bitter weather
Had smashed the cellar pane:
We entertained a drift of leaves
And then of snow and rain.
But we were dressed for winter,
And loved to hear it blow
In honor of the lady
Who makes potatoes grow --
Our guest, the Irish lady,
The tiny Irish lady,
The fairy Irish lady
That makes potatoes grow.
"Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the band,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand:
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their arms were just the same,
They jigged and whirled and scrambled
In honor of the dame:
The noble Irish lady
Who makes potatoes dance,
The witty Irish lady,
The saucy Irish lady,
The laughing Irish lady
Who makes potatoes prance.
"There was just one sweet potato.
He was golden-brown and slim:
The lady loved his figure.
She danced all night with him.
Alas, he wasn't Irish.
So when she flew away,
They threw him in the coal-bin
And there he is to-day,
Where they cannot hear his sighs --
His weeping for the lady,
The beauteous Irish lady,
The radiant Irish lady
Who gives potatoes eyes."
How a Little Girl Sang
Ah, she was music in herself,
A symphony of joyousness.
She sang, she
And shall he mold like dead leaves in the grave?
Nay he is in us! Let us dare and dare.
God help us to be brave.
Titian
Would that such hills and cities round us sang,
Such vistas of the actual earth and man
As kindled Titian when his life began;
Would that this latter Greek could put his gold,
Wisdom and splendor in our brushes bold
Till Greece and Venice, children of the sun,
Become our every-day, and we aspire
To colors fairer far, and glories higher.
Lincoln
Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,
That which is gendered in the wilderness
From lonely prairies and God's tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire --
Fire that freed the slave.
The Cornfields
The cornfields rise above mankind,
Lifting white torches to the blue,
Each season not ashamed to be
Magnificently decked for you.
What right have you to call them yours,
And in brute lust of riches burn
Without some radiant penance wrought,
Some beautiful, devout return?
Sweet Briars of the Stairways
We are happy all the time
Even when we fight:
Sweet briars of the stairways,
Gay fairies of the grime;
WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT.
"Our feet are in the gutters,
Our eyes are sore with dust,
But still our eyes are bright.
The wide street roars and mutters --
We know it works because it must --
WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT!
"Dirt is everlasting. -- We never, never fear it.
Toil is never ceasing. -- We will play until we near it.
Tears are never ending. -- When once real tears have come;
"When we see our people as they are --
Our fathers -- broken, dumb --
Our mothers -- broken, dumb --
The weariest of women and of men;
Ah -- then our eyes will lose their light --
Then we will never play again --
WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT."
Fantasies and Whims: --
The Fairy Bridal Hymn
[This is the hymn to Eleanor, daughter of Mab and a golden drone,
sung by the Locust choir when the fairy child marries her God,
the yellow rose]
This is a song to the white-armed one
Cold in the breast as the frost-wrapped Spring,
Whose feet are slow on the hills of life,
Whose round mouth rules by whispering.
This is a song to the white-armed one
Whose breast shall burn as a Summer field,
Whose wings shall rise to the doors of gold,
Whose poppy lips to the God shall yield.
This is a song to the white-armed one
When the closing rose shall bind her fast,
And a song of the song their blood shall sing,
When the Rose-God drinks her soul at last.
The Potato's Dance
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"I saw a ball last night
In honor of a lady
Whose wings were pearly-white.
The breath of bitter weather
Had smashed the cellar pane:
We entertained a drift of leaves
And then of snow and rain.
But we were dressed for winter,
And loved to hear it blow
In honor of the lady
Who makes potatoes grow --
Our guest, the Irish lady,
The tiny Irish lady,
The fairy Irish lady
That makes potatoes grow.
"Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the band,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand:
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their arms were just the same,
They jigged and whirled and scrambled
In honor of the dame:
The noble Irish lady
Who makes potatoes dance,
The witty Irish lady,
The saucy Irish lady,
The laughing Irish lady
Who makes potatoes prance.
"There was just one sweet potato.
He was golden-brown and slim:
The lady loved his figure.
She danced all night with him.
Alas, he wasn't Irish.
So when she flew away,
They threw him in the coal-bin
And there he is to-day,
Where they cannot hear his sighs --
His weeping for the lady,
The beauteous Irish lady,
The radiant Irish lady
Who gives potatoes eyes."
How a Little Girl Sang
Ah, she was music in herself,
A symphony of joyousness.
She sang, she